Michael stood in line for hours to get Carla’s food rations for the month. He was fortunate to snare a scrawny chicken and a few fresh vegetables that had been trucked in from Camaguey. He plucked the chicken, peeled the vegetables, and put everything in a pot to simmer, as Carla instructed. The meal turned out to be quite good. After dinner, they went for a walk.
As usual, the Malecón was crowded with people: boys in shabby clothes and sneakers with no laces, prostitutes in tight shorts and tank tops, musicians playing for food. The light from their candles threw a muted glow up from the rocks. Many were living on the other side of the seawall, Carla said. As night fell, masking the despair, they saw dark smudges bobbing on the surface of the bay.
“What are those?” Michael pointed.
“Neumáticos,” Carla answered. “People lash together the inner tubes from tractor wheels, throw a board on top, and use them as fishing boats.”
“Tractor wheels?”
“They are no longer being used to farm. At least they are being put to use.”
Another case of “resolver,” Michael thought grimly. He watched the fishermen paddle the neumáticos farther out into the bay. “The doom… it’s right here.”
“¿Que dices?” Carla asked.
“Remember what the Santería priestess with the shells said?”
“Of course. But what is this doom?”
“The jineteros, the hookers, the neumáticos… all of them were probably teachers, engineers, technicians before. But now…” His voice trailed off. “Where is your family?” he asked.
“My father is sick, so my parents went back to Santiago de Cuba. That’s where they came from. There is family there to help them.” She was quiet. “He has cancer,” she added.
“But you stayed here?”
“I have my job. And the apartment. At least for now.”
“What do you mean ‘for now?’”
“The house originally belonged to a man who got out of Cuba thirty years ago. His son was a friend of my mother’s. My parents moved in to be the ‘caretakers.’ Of course, it belongs to the state now. They can reclaim it anytime they want.”
“But they haven’t?”
“Most likely because I am a doctor.” She snorted. “At least it is good for something.”
“What happens if they do take it one day? What will you do? Where will you go?”
“I will ‘resolver.’” She paused. “But let’s not dwell on unhappy subjects.” Carla smiled. “Come. We will go to La Perla, so you can see where your mother lived.”
The tour of La Perla was bittersweet. A convention center now, the place was locked and they couldn’t get in. Instead they peered through glass doors. Michael saw an expansive lobby with floor to ceiling mirrors and plenty of chandeliers. Carla said it was one of the first resorts to be fully air-conditioned.
Michael imagined what it must have been like thirty years earlier when it was one of the jewels—the pearl, in fact—of Havana’s resorts. Again, he wondered about his mother’s life. Cuba had been her home for nearly fifteen years. She’d grown up here. How did she feel about leaving? Did she have regrets? Is that where his restlessness came from? She’d never spoken much about her life here. Then again, he hadn’t asked.
They turned back towards Carla’s apartment. As if she knew he needed a distraction, she started to chatter. “I like the dry season better than the wet. It’s not so hot. And the breeze is so lovely.”
“What is it now… December?” Michael went along with her. “I’ll bet it’s snowing back home.”
“Where is home?” Carla asked.
Shit. It had slipped out. He didn’t want her to know. The less she knew about him, the better. Although with every passing day, that was becoming more difficult. He tried to cover his gaffe. “If you were in the States now, you’d see a frenzy of materialism. Lots of men dressed like Santa Claus, Christmas trees, lots of money being spent. They call it ‘the holiday spirit.’”
For his mother Christmas was the most important holiday of the year. She always made sure there was a ridiculously huge pile of presents under the tree. And there was the party. His mother threw an annual Christmas Eve party with lavish decorations, a catered dinner, and a band that played swing music in the early hours, switching to rock and roll later. His grandfather and father would each wear a tux. Now, though, as he strolled down the Malecón, comprehension dawned. The frivolity, the food, the music—it must have reminded his mother of Havana; of the time when there was a party at La Perla every night. Michael slowed his pace, so caught up in his thoughts he didn’t hear Carla.
“Well?” she said. “Miguel?”
He forced himself back. “¡Perdone! What did you say?”
“I was saying that Christmas in Cuba is a religious holiday. But, before the revolution—I was quite young, maybe three or four—I remember the stores and hotels were decorated. They imported fir trees and dressed them with those big balls of color. And lights. After 1959, of course, the holiday was banned as a symbol of imperialism. But every now and then you see a red sock on a door. Before the CDR makes them take it down.”
Michael took her hand. She let him. It had to be the first time, he thought.
“The New Year is our big celebration. It coincides with the success of the revolution. The country goes wild. Fireworks, parties, drinking, fiestas.” She nodded. “It is better that way.”
“Why?”
“Because of what you said. You Americans are consumed by material things. You should hear the letters my patients get from their relatives. Full of how much money they have, what they have bought, what they are going to buy. They try to make you feel the streets are paved with dollars.”
Michael was about to say “what did you expect” when it occurred to him that like Carla, there had to be many Cubans who didn’t want to be in thrall to America, politically or materially. Who might actually resent the people who left or escaped when Fidel came to power. People like his mother. He wondered what Carla would think of his mother if they met. Probably not much, he thought. But aloud he said, “You don’t like Americans much, do you?”
Carla corrected him. “I don’t like greedy people. Or those who try to control others because of where they live or how much they have.”
“Like I said, you don’t like Americans much.”
She dropped his hand. “Miguel, I grew up with Fidel. We were taught Americans cannot be trusted. There was the exploitation before the revolution, then the invasion afterwards—what you call the Bay of Pigs—then the Missile Crisis. And embargo. Why should we trust you?”
“What about all those letters your patients get from their relatives?”
She made a brushing aside gesture. “Much of what is written is a lie. It’s intended to make us resent Fidel and long for America. But it doesn’t work. Your country has problems. War-mongering, racism, discrimination. In America, Cubans are treated as badly as your blacks.”
“That’s not true.” Michael felt his cheeks get hot. “Cubans are always given asylum.”
“Yes, but after that, a man who was once a doctor in Havana washes dishes in Miami. Or drives a taxi in New York.”
“So, you’d rather stay here and barely survive? Use all your energy to ‘resolver?’”
“Cuba is home.” Her expression went flat, and she picked up her pace.
Michael followed. This was their first fight.
They continued down the Malecón in silence, Carla a few feet ahead of him, as if determined not to bow before the almighty fortress of capitalism that Michael represented. For his part, Michael, who was jaded by nature, had to admire her tenacity. And, because she was a few steps in front, he couldn’t help but admire her ass too. Small and beautifully shaped.
As if she’d read his mind, she stopped and wheeled around. “Oh. I almost forgot.” Something in her tone told him she hadn’t forgotten at all but was waiting for the right time to bring it up. “Someone came looking for you today at the clinic.”
Michael was jolted out of his fantasy. “Who?”
“He wrote down his name and address.” She fished in her bag and pulled out a scrap of paper.
“Was it Luis Perez?”
Carla’s eyebrows arched as she gazed at the paper. “How did you know?”
“He’s the man I’ve been trying to find.”
She handed it over.
He held it up to a lamppost and read the address. “Where is this?”
“Lawton.” At his questioning look, she added, “It’s a neighborhood a bit south of here. A working-class neighborhood.” She hesitated. Then, “I suppose that now that you know where he is, you will conduct your business.”
Michael nodded.
“And then you will go back to America?” Her expression was unreadable.
Michael didn’t answer. The night air that had seemed so refreshing a moment ago suddenly grew close and stifling. His plans were to get the map, deal with Perez, and leave Cuba before Christmas. But he couldn’t tell that to Carla. The thought of lying to her filled him with guilt.